


Pulse, Flatline, Pulse

by Meggory



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Drama, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 21:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13912338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meggory/pseuds/Meggory
Summary: Qui-Gon Jinn dies on Naboo. Obi-Wan Kenobi spends his first five years as a new Knight without a Padawan. When Dooku interrupts the anniversary of the liberation of Theed, Obi-Wan might just get the opportunity to say things he's needed to say for a long time.





	Pulse, Flatline, Pulse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosbysweaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosbysweaters/gifts).



> Hey folks! Cosbysweaters wanted a story that managed to explain "that scene" in TPM--you all know the one, where Qui-Gon officially Ruins Everything(tm)--with some angst and drama and a happy ending, as well as Anakin and Obi-Wan having a positive relationship. I managed a hopeful ending, so please enjoy.

The connection snapped as the final breath left his body and his hand slipped down Obi-Wan's smooth cheek.

He surfaced for a brief moment, unable to open his eyes. Alive or dead?

Curled fists slammed against plastisteel, breaking open his knuckles.

He was himself, or as much of himself as he could possibly be, except—

The place in his mind where Obi-Wan resided, nestled and quiet and comforting, was empty.

A scream, wild and mixing with the metallic tang of his blood dripping from his hands, faded as he sank back into oblivion.

 

*

 

He would not be cruel. He had been cruel already by keeping his distance, and he refused to make it worse. The boy sat on the grass in one of the palace's many courtyard gardens, running his fingers through the verge with a contemplative expression on his sun-darkened face. Obi-Wan Kenobi cleared his throat as he approached. "May I join you?"

Anakin Skywalker nodded and patted the grass next to him. "I haven't really seen you around."

"I know; I had to—" Obi-Wan hesitated, not quite knowing how much to tell the boy.

"Do Jedi stuff?" Anakin supplied helpfully.

"Yes." Jedi stuff—endless debriefings, both for the Council and with the humanoid and Gungan governments of Naboo, accompanying a group of Jedi Investigators which no doubt included one or two undercover Shadows through the palace and down to the melting pit to gather evidence, and arranging a funeral.

Qui-Gon's funeral. Obi-Wan swallowed hard, trying to clear his head of the flood of emotions welling up within him. Everything was raw and rough, including the tiny space in his mind where his sense of Qui-Gon Jinn used to live. He could run mental fingertips over the spot, prodding it and holding onto the physical hurt it offered. It was easier than daring to touch the pain in his heart. 

A perceptive child, whether due to his intense connection to the Force or his life spent avoiding the kind of troubles no child should worry about, Anakin frowned. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Obi-Wan forced himself to exhale and turn a weak smile on the boy. "I actually came here to tell you the same thing."

Disappointment tinged with panic leaked into the Force; Anakin's fist clutched a clump of soft-bladed grass. "They're sending me back?"

"No! No, no, Anakin, no." _Kark_. As if he needed any more indication that he was epically unsuited to take an apprentice. "The Council has agreed that you should stay with the Jedi. No one is sending you back to Tatooine."

"Oh." Relief poured off the boy, making Obi-Wan hide his wince. Anakin needed to learn proper shielding just so the rest of the Temple would not flee at his arrival. The small hand stilled over the grass, and Anakin squinted suspiciously at Obi-Wan. "I should stay with the Jedi, but not with you?"

Gods, but the boy was bright. "I can't take you as my Padawan, Anakin."

Beneath sun-bleached hair, Anakin's face fell. "You don't want me?"

The words, simple and plaintive, pierced Obi-Wan's heart as surely as the Zabrak's lightstaff had pierced Qui-Gon's. Another time had witnessed the same heartbroken words. It had been years since that moment, well over a decade, but the perfectly retained, unwanted memory of Qui-Gon Jinn telling 13 year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi that no, he would not apprentice him, filled him.

And then another, recent and tinged with bitterness. _I will train him. I take Anakin as my Padawan learner._

It would have been kinder had Qui-Gon cut out Obi-Wan's heart.

Obi-Wan would not do that to another. "I never said that. I cannot take you, because the Council forbids it, and if I were to truly search my heart, I agree with their decision." Anakin's eyes were brimming with angry tears, and Obi-Wan rubbed a weary hand over his face. "I'm not the right teacher for you, Ani. They only Knighted me because I survived the fight with the Sith. I need more experience before I can teach another. _Years_ of experience."

"But I want to be your student!" protested Anakin, swiping hastily at his bright blue eyes.

"What we want and what we need are often different things." Obi-Wan's hand crept up to run along his long, beaded braid, only to hang awkwardly in the air when he remembered it had been cut. "I think you'll be a great Jedi, Anakin, but you need an experienced teacher."

"Who, then?" The words were sharp, sour with childish disgruntlement.

"Master Yaddle," replied Obi-Wan gently. "She is wise and respected."

"I remember her. She and Master Yoda are the same species, right?" At Obi-Wan's nod, Anakin said, "She didn't say a word to me."

Obi-Wan's mouth twisted; Anakin had regaled him about the story of his testing, and Obi-Wan had never imagined his first act as a Jedi Knight would be to not break Mace Windu's face. "Master Yaddle is often overshadowed by the others on the Council because of her tendency to silence," Obi-Wan confided. "She used to sneak candy into my pocket."

Anakin giggled, and Obi-Wan smiled at him. "I still wish I could have you, Obi-Wan."

Oh, to be wanted. It was not a feeling Obi-Wan was intimately familiar with. Impulsively, Obi-Wan reached over and stroked the boy's hair. "I'll always be your friend, Anakin. You can write me letters when I'm out on missions and tell me all about your training and new friends and all that."

"Do you read Huttese?" asked Anakin seriously.

"No, why?"

"Because I don't read or write Basic. I assume you have access to a translation matrix? Because if you don't, I could cobble one together for you—I'll just need the linguistic database—"

"Ani!" chuckled Obi-Wan even as he made a note to send Yaddle a heads-up. She may have had dozens of Padawans, but he doubted she ever had to teach one to read Basic. Or one who would offer to create an intricate piece of programming from scratch without a second thought. "It's fine, the Jedi are well-equipped with translation matrices."

"Oh." A pensive silence fell over the former slave. His fingers plucked bits of grass. "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course, Ani."

"It-it's about Qui-Gon." The boy was hesitant, and through the Force Obi-Wan could feel that he was worried about Obi-Wan's feelings. A lump appeared in Obi-Wan's throat; whether it was at Qui-Gon's name or the concern the boy was showing him, he was not entirely sure. The new Knight motioned for Anakin to continue. "I wasn't sure if I should say anything, I mean, I'm no Jedi, what do I know?"

"Just say it."

"In the Council chamber. He told them he took me as a Padawan learner, but they said he already had an apprentice and couldn't have another." Obi-Wan closed his eyes against the memory, but it just popped up more vividly against his eyelids. The defiance in Qui-Gon's blue eyes, normally reserved for ignoring the Council, turned upon his apprentice. The anger in Obi-Wan rising to the surface to hide his broken heart. The tension between master and apprentice, plucked like a string, snapping back past the point of breaking. "It felt like he was arguing. Fighting."

"Master Qui-Gon often argues with the Council, Anakin. This was no different." He caught himself and spoke even as the word turned to ash on his tongue. "Argued."

Anakin shook his head emphatically. "No, he was fighting with himself. At least, that's what it felt like."

"He knew exactly what he was doing," Obi-Wan said softly, rising from the grass and brushing off his cloak. _He just didn't care what he was doing to me._ "The transport back to Coruscant leaves in one hour from the main hangar. We can go say farewell to Padmé, if you'd like."

Obi-Wan kept his gaze ahead and ignored the waves of concern rolling off the boy as they wandered back into the Theed palace.

 

*

 

Obi-Wan stumbled through the door of their quarters, jittery and exhausted from lengthy hyperspace travel. He had made his excuses, citing a need for sleep, to avoid the knot of people awaiting the shuttle from Naboo. Each Jedi wore sympathy in their eyes, and most held pity for him. He should have stayed, made sure Anakin and Yaddle made it home safely. He should have accepted their traditional words acknowledging his loss. He toed off his boots and flopped down on the couch in the dark, unwilling to turn on the lights.

It was easier to be alone in the dark.

Qui-Gon was gone, and Obi-Wan Kenobi sat alone in the dark of their shared rooms.

It was not easier to be idle. With a frustrated growl, he made his way to the kitchenette and started pulling down cups and saucers and tea canisters. A cup of tea would warm him, maybe fill the empty hole inside him for just a moment. He filled the kettle and set it to boil, still working in the dark, and began opening tins of tea.

The first one was a green tea, too highly caffeinated for this time of night.

The second one smelled of sweet and sour fruit. That was the one they served when Yoda came by.

As the the kettle began to whistle, he popped the lid off the next tin. The earthy, rich scent of sapir overwhelmed his senses. Obi-Wan staggered to his knees, struck with renewed grief.

Qui-Gon always smelled of his favourite tea; the smell of sapir clung to his clothes, his hair, his skin more potently than any cologne. Obi-Wan teased him that he bathed in tea and scattered tea leaves in his cloak pockets, and Qui-Gon would just smile mysteriously and take another sip from his steaming mug—

_Had_ teased him. Never again would he have that slow, delightful smile turned upon him.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Obi-Wan staggered to his feet. Carefully, he twisted the lid closed on the sapir and set it at the back of the cupboard, then arranged the other tins in front of it. The water in the kettle was cooling. His fingers ghosted over the cups—

Two cups.

He fled the kitchen, tea abandoned.

This was his last night in these rooms. The quartermaster had already sent him a message assigning his new Knight's billet. Obi-Wan stood in the doorway of Qui-Gon's sleeping chamber, still not daring to turn on the light. The orange haze of Coruscant's constant bustle crept in from the narrow window. The room was perfectly arranged, as befitting a Jedi Master, but the pillow resting at the head of the bed was askew. He should fix it.

His feet refused to step into the room.

A Jedi did not die; a Jedi became one with the Force. A Jedi did not become attached; a Jedi released his emotions and embraced peace and clarity. So why did he want to curl up in Qui-Gon's bed like a child and envelop himself in sheets that smelled of sapir and the underlying human scent that was simply Qui-Gon?

Obi-Wan Kenobi was no longer an apprentice.

He stepped back and closed the door. That night he lay in his own familiar bed for the last time, a Jedi Knight willing his broken heart to silence.

 

*

 

Anakin made a face to keep himself from laughing out loud. "All I said was it's a change," he said.

Obi-Wan glared at the teen and smoothed his hand over his beard. "You don't get to make fun of my beard until you can actually grow one," he retorted. "Besides, it keeps my face warm. You of all people should appreciate that."

"Sure," Anakin replied, surreptitiously swiping a thumb over his own hairless chin. "Warm. Whatever you say, Knight Kenobi."

Obi-Wan stuffed a pair of socks in his bag and poked Anakin in the arm. The underfed slave boy had transformed into a picture-perfect fourteen year-old Padawan apprentice, and Obi-Wan could not help but note with annoyance that Anakin was now as tall as him. "I'll be getting enough of that by tomorrow, thank you very much."

The amusement died as Anakin cleared his throat. His shields were as good as any apprentice his age, but he was still young. Obi-Wan could feel the boy's resentment even if his words were mostly neutral. "I don't understand why you have to go tonight."

"Because the Council requires it, Anakin, and as Jedi, we go where we are needed," lied Obi-Wan. Yoda had suggested a brief delay, but Obi-Wan had refused.

"You were his apprentice. You should be there," protested Anakin, folding his arms across his chest. "It's been five years, Obi-Wan, and you've only been in-Temple for the first one."

Five years since Qui-Gon's death. Five wilderness years—those first hectic, harried years of surviving as a newly-Knighted Jedi or breaking entirely. Five years of waking up screaming and helpless, of taking increasingly dangerous assignments, of refusing a permanent working parter. The Council praised the efforts of their Sithkiller, content to have such a skilled and obedient Knight who seemed to have resisted the maverick streak of his former Master.

His Master, who had built Obi-Wan up only to break his heart. His Master, who had touched Obi-Wan's cheek in his final moment but only spoken of Anakin with his last breath. His Master, who had left before he could heal the chasm he had created between them.

"I don't need an annual reminder; I was there," snapped Obi-Wan, too harshly. The blood drained from Anakin's face. Hastily, Obi-Wan added, "It's good that you keep his memory, Anakin. It is, truly, and I'm grateful that you can attend the memorial in my stead."

Last year, Anakin would likely have pushed the issue, spoken his mind and roused Obi-Wan into a fight; Yaddle, however, was living up to her title as Jedi Master and had somehow taught the boy some modicum of discretion. The Padawan fiddled with his braid, capped with a delicately carved bead. "Sorry, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan snapped his gaze up from his bag. "Don't apologize like that," he said, hoarse around his suddenly dry mouth. _I'm...I'm sorry for my behavior, Master. It is not my place to disagree with you about the boy. I am grateful you think I am ready for the trials._ He had said it, desperate to have Qui-Gon even look at him with some shred of fondness. His heart had been on the verge of breaking all over again.

_You have been a good apprentice._ Qui-Gon surely had been distracted, but even in his distraction, he had cut Obi-Wan to the quick. _Have been_ , not _are_. For all the Council had forbidden him to apprentice Anakin, the idea had already taken root, impossible to dig out, as they stood in the Naboo swamp.

"I just mean you don't need to apologize," added Obi-Wan hastily. "You didn't do anything that requires an apology." He hefted his packed bag. "My transport's due in ten. Missions don't wait, Ani."

Anakin seemed to swallow a deep sigh but managed a small smile. "I'll walk you to the landing platform."

 

*

 

The mission had been a simple case of retrieving a kidnapped political leader, solved less than a day after Obi-Wan had arrived on-planet. With a few hours to spare before his transport arrived, Obi-Wan made polite but firm excuses to his government hosts and stalked into the bustling city to find the nearest watering hole.

Dark, deserted before noon but still happy to serve alcohol—it rather matched Obi-Wan's mood, and he sat at the bar to nurse a glass of unadulterated whiskey. Each sip burned his throat. He stared into the amber liquid as if he could find solace at the bottom.

Five years to the day. Five years ago he had battled that Zabrak monster and sliced the bastard in half in the most difficult fight of his life. Five years ago he had held Qui-Gon in his arms, begging him to stay, while Qui-Gon spoke only of Anakin.

Five years without closure. Five years of a broken heart.

Obi-Wan took another sip of the potent drink and tried not to grimace.

"Qui-Gon always did have terrible taste in whiskey," rumbled a deep, familiar voice that Obi-Wan had never expected to hear again.

He snapped his eyes up to find Dooku sitting perfectly straight next to him, his hands folded precisely atop the bar. When the bartender moved to take his order, the white-haired man nodded at Obi-Wan's glass. "Master Dooku, what—"

"I'm not a Jedi anymore, Obi-Wan. Surely you remember that." Dooku did not look at him as he accepted his own drink. He held the square glass aloft, examining the way the alcohol swirled against the sides in the dim blue light.

"Dooku, then," Obi-Wan corrected with a frown. "What can I do for you?" He asked the question automatically, with the deferential respect that a new Knight owed his grand-master, Jedi or otherwise. When Dooku did not reply, Obi-Wan sneaked a longer glance at the man.

Greyer in hair and beard than the last time he had seen him, Dooku held the subtle lines of grief in his face that one who was not Jedi would dismiss as age. Qui-Gon's death had been the last straw, pushing the celebrated duellist to abandon the Order and retake his birthright on Serenno. Obi-Wan had been away on a lengthy mission when Dooku had made his dramatic exit; he regretted not being present to make one last argument for staying.

Dooku took a sip of his drink and winced slightly. "Godsawful," he muttered.

"I'll go back to calling you Master," warned Obi-Wan.

With a snort, Dooku propped his elbow on the bar and gestured with his drink towards Obi-Wan. "I thought the two of us could make a toast in his honour, given the day and your choice of beverage." Obi-Wan sighed quietly, unsure how to handle his unexpected—and frankly, unwanted—company, but Dooku said softly, "You're not the only person who cared about him. He was my apprentice."

The Force said nothing, but the grief in the old man's voice was palpable and threatened to overwhelm the tenuous grasp Obi-Wan had over his own sorrow. He cleared his throat roughly and raised his glass. "A toast, then." He could not say more; a lump had risen in his throat and refused to budge.

Dooku nodded. "To Qui-Gon Jinn, that stubborn bantha's arse," he said, a little thickly, before touching the rim of his glass to Obi-Wan's and drinking.

A surprised bark of laughter escaped Obi-Wan's lips. "Truer words and all that."

"Once he got an idea in his head, there was nothing you could do to dissuade him," Dooku said, almost fondly. "Consequences be damned."

"And it killed him," whispered Obi-Wan. He was running, too tired, head throbbing, too slow—caught by the shield generators. He was screaming at that spot in his mind, now iron-clad and ignoring him, to stop, to just _wait for him_ —

"Obi-Wan?" Dooku was looking at him in concern.

"He refused to let me catch up." The confession tumbled from his lips, unspoken for five years. "He was tired, but he engaged the Sith without me. He was tired, and he fell for the feint. If he had _listened_ —" Obi-Wan snapped his teeth together, fighting the guilt rising in him. He should be over this. He should release it into the Force, like a good Jedi—

"You of all people should be grateful he was a stubborn bastard," Dooku said calmly, sipping his whiskey with a moue of distaste.

"Grateful?!" hissed Obi-Wan, slamming his glass on the bar with a sharp crack. The bartender started, frowning deeply at them. A drop of amber liquid flew out and landed on Obi-Wan's pale wrist.

"Qui-Gon never gave up on you," continued the former Jedi, ignoring the Knight's display of anger. "You left the Order during that Melida/Daan debacle. Do you know how long and hard he fought the Council for your reinstatement? I told him he was being particularly obstinate, to fight for someone who became emotionally attached at the drop of a hat, but he just smiled at me. You wouldn't be sitting here if it weren't for his stubbornness."

Stunned, Obi-Wan could only croak, "He renounced me in front of the Council."

A glower darkened Dooku's sharp features. "I should have strangled him, but you were already on Naboo when I found out."

"I wasn't good enough," Obi-Wan mumbled into his glass. The whiskey was like fire in his mouth, tasting of ash.

"Obi-Wan," Dooku said hesitantly. The tone sounded so strange that it drew Obi-Wan's attention like filings to a magnet. The former Jedi fished a packet of flimsi from his breast pocket and slid it across the bar towards the Knight. "You should have these." He knocked back the last mouthful of whiskey, shuddered, and walked out of the bar without a backwards glance.

Stunned at the abrupt exit, Obi-Wan's gaze lingered on the doorway for a long moment before turning upon the packet on the bar. The flimsi was wrapped with a thin silk ribbon and tied with a complex knot the Jedi Order kept secret for its own use. His fingers pulled on the ribbon methodically, warily. He unfolded the flimsi. Even in the dim light of the bar, the handwriting was unmistakably familiar.

Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan searched his memory and found flashes of his Master at his desk in their quarters, pen in hand and scratching at real sheets of flimsi. It had taken years for Obi-Wan to question the odd scene.

_"Why are you writing on flimsi?" asked Obi-Wan, sixteen and still short a few growth spurts. His leg hooked over the arm of the couch as he solved a hyperdrive calculation for his navigation class._

_"Hmm?" came the distracted reply._

_"Flimsi, Master?"_

_The long-haired Jedi smiled at his apprentice and gestured with his pen. "Master Dooku prefers to write on flimsi. He says he prefers the aesthetic, but I suspect he appreciates the possibility of burning his notes in case of emergency. So I indulge him and handwrite my correspondence to him."_

_"My handwriting is terrible."_

_"Then I suppose you'll have to send me transmissions when you're gallivanting around the galaxy, Knight Kenobi. I think I'd prefer to hear your voice, anyhow." The twinkle of fondness in Qui-Gon's bright blue eyes brought a smile to Obi-Wan's face even more than the sound of his future title._

He thumbed through the sheaf, flicking his eyes over the dates; the letters spanned back a few years. The letter at the top proclaimed the date as a month before the mission to Naboo. Obi-Wan squinted, trying to focus on the cramped, flowing text in the poor light.

_He's ready, Dooku. I should have recommended him for the Trials months ago, maybe even a year, but I don't know how to let him go. He has been my companion, my steadfast conscience and better sense for too long, and now I'm not certain I will be able to give that up—indeed, whether I want to give that up. I'm sure you're readying your pen for a caustic reprisal, my Master, and perhaps I've earned that much. I don't want to lose him. I dare not admit anything further, certainly not in writing, than what I can admit to myself._

The final forn blurred suddenly, and Obi-Wan swiped his thumb over the escaped tear. The ink blurred on the flimsi and stained his skin. He cleared his throat roughly, blinking back the rest of the threatening tears, and shuffled the letters back into a neat stack. Another scrap of flimsi, this one with rough, torn edges, fell out of the stack and slipped onto the bar. Obi-Wan plucked it up and held it to the light.

A different hand, sharp and stylish, had written two lines.

_Find him, Obi-Wan_ was followed by a set of galactic and planetary coordinates.

 

*

 

Dooku was a manipulative old bastard. Obi-Wan groaned at the thought, not for the first time, as he lay in the dark on his too-short bunk and watched the stars streak past the tiny round viewport. He should not be here. He should be heading back to the Temple, giving his report in person and accepting his next mission. At no point in this endeavour should he have taken his earned vacation time, omitted his meeting with Dooku in his holotransmission to the Council, hitched a ride on an old rust bucket of a transport, and spent three days holed up in his closet-sized quarters reading and re-reading too much and not meditating enough.

If Dooku was a manipulative old bastard, then Obi-Wan was a gullible young fool. 

Those four words haunted him, plucking at him with every waking moment. _Find him, Obi-Wan_. Dooku could only have meant one person, and that one person was dead and cremated. Obi-Wan had been present for both. And yet here he was, poring over old letters and not daring to admit aloud what Dooku was asking of him. The letters provided no clues; the ten missives related brief mentions of particularly un-noteworthy missions.

In each letter, however, Qui-Gon wrote about Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan read the words over and over, tracing his fingertips over the familiar hand as the thin scarring over the empty spot in his mind broke open with every pen stroke. Obi-Wan had thought Qui-Gon doubted his abilities, or was being far more cautious in recommending him for the Trials than other Masters; he had viciously silenced the niggling thought of Xanatos even as he recognized the fallen Padawan as a notable reason Qui-Gon might hesitate to graduate his apprentice.

Here, in black and white, Obi-Wan was proven wrong.

_There's nothing left for me to teach him. Any knowledge he does not possess lies exclusively in the experiences of independence. I know this, Dooku, so why am I so reluctant to let him go? I ask you only because you practically dumped me into my wilderness years with naught but a hearty handshake and the code for one of your emergency bank accounts 'in case I have to buy my way out of slavery again.' (Which, I believe, I've never properly thanked you for, so posterity's sake, thanks for that.)_

_You may be interested to know that Obi-Wan beat out ten other competitors to win the senior Padawan duelling trials. I weep for any true enemy who may stand in his way, although he is sporting a black eye from his friend Siri Tachi, who punched him in the face before they even crossed 'sabers. I doubt Obi-Wan will fall for that particular feint in the future. I will miss having such ferocity and grace at my side in a fight, but I think I will miss his smile, his deft humour, even more._

Words that should have been a balm on his heart caused him more grief. If he looked at these missives as if they were clues in an investigation, the answer was truly obvious, though never explicitly stated. The writer of these letters loved the subject.

Qui-Gon Jinn loved Obi-Wan Kenobi, and he loved him more than a Jedi was supposed to.

The revelation tore at the Knight, left him gasping and trembling on an unfamiliar bunk in a strange ship. Six years ago, he would have burst with joy at the thought, knowing his carefully hidden affections were returned. Now it left him cold and bereft, wondering what the kriff had happened to turn a Jedi Master's heart to ice.

He brought the flimsi to his lips. Whatever mission Dooku was sending him on, he had to see it through. He needed to know what was at the end of the coordinates.

_Find him, Obi-Wan._

He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of dry flimsi and the faint, unmistakeable tang of sapir.

 

*

 

"You sent me to the middle of nowhere," muttered Obi-Wan as he slid off the speederbike and glared at the landscape. Flat and dun-coloured, the desert had shifted from the hard, cracked clay that covered most of the area. He stooped down to trail his fingers over the sharp, crystalline structures that grew like weeds over the ground. A piece broke off, and he straightened, holding the chunk up for examination. The crystalline structure tickled his memory of geology class… He brought the dusty brown rock to his lips and touched it to the tip of his tongue briefly.

Salt. It was a salt desert, likely the remains of an evaporated ocean.

Why in karking hells had Dooku sent him to a salt desert in the backwater of the Outer Rim? Hishiym barely had enough value for people to still live here. The next closest system was Rishi, whose only claim to fame was its hyperspace lane to the extragalactic Rishi Maze. Frustrated, Obi-Wan threw the chunk of salt. The skittering sound of its landing was loud in his ears.

Exhausted from long space travel and dredged up emotions, Obi-Wan scuffed a spot with his boots and sat down, cross-legged. He was a Jedi Knight, no matter how he got the title, and he was going to act like it. He closed his eyes, calming his mind into a meditation.

It truly was desolate here. The salt kept anything from growing, which prevented even the smallest animals from seeking refuge. Obi-Wan let his senses trail out, over the salt, deeper into the ground. He found nothing but barren ground, missing even the thrum of rain water or the current of the wind. Deeper, then.

There. _There_.

The tiniest pinprick of life beckoned him, hiding beneath the surface of the earth. Faint. Waiting.

The Force was there, just as it always was, ready for his supplication and command. It whispered to him, showing him not what he wanted to know, but what he needed to discover the answer on his own. He rose, walking into the jagged field of crystals with careful steps.

One hundred paces away from his speederbike, Obi-Wan finally crouched down to examine the terrain. He balanced on his heels, trailing his fingertips over the intricate patterns the hardened salt made. There was something beneath him; that hint of life feeling stronger now. The Force nudged him, and he curled his fingers in anticipation over his lightsaber.

There was no hatch to open. A graceful arc of blue light scorched the earth, and Obi-Wan lifted the thin layer of salt and solid silt with a careful application of the Force. In the harsh sun, a rusted vertical ladder glinted dully and disappeared into a dark hole. Grimacing at the stale air, Obi-Wan tested the first rung with a sharp jab of his boot before descending below the ground.

At the bottom of a surprisingly long ladder, Obi-Wan found himself in total darkness. The air was cold with the hint of damp that suggested malfunctioning air recyclers. He ignited his 'saber and held the blade up to light his way down a narrow, unlit corridor. Every step echoed off the smoothly cut but unpolished material that lined the passageway. Beneath Obi-Wan's fingers, the walls were warmer than the air.

A shiver ran through him, unbidden. Something here was wrong, but the Force urged him forward.

The corridor ended abruptly in a slab of metal, perfectly smooth and lacking any mechanism for opening. He slid his fingertips over the titanium, but there were no cracks, no imperfections. An unopenable door, sealed beneath the earth and left in the dark. Whatever was beyond this door, someone wanted kept secret. Obi-Wan Kenobi, however, had left his patience in the sunlight, and he had been taught by a man with a scathing disregard for locked doors. He plunged the blade of his 'saber into the metal, careful to avoid molten metal sputtering towards him, and cut himself a Jedi-sized hole. He shoved the cut titanium with the Force. The deep, resonating bang it made as it hit the floor jarred him up from the soles of his boots.

A low-ceilinged chamber waited behind the door. The lights were off; the only sparks of light were steadily flashing red status lights on a piece of equipment Obi-Wan could not identify at a distance. He stepped through the hole in the door, wary of the still-glowing metal edges, and held up his lightsaber. A thick layer of pale dust covered equipment that seemed biomedical in nature. The air held a tang of salt and dust; the recycler was no longer filtering out particles from the surface. He moved towards the red lights, his boots sending puffs of dirt into the air with every step. The gentle light of his lightsaber revealed a long cylinder that reminded Obi-Wan of a cryo-cycle stasis chamber.

That faint hint of life was here, in front of him.

Someone had hidden a living being down here and abandoned them.

Obi-Wan blew on the controls, sending a cloud of dust back into his face that set him coughing and sputtering. He stabbed a sequence of buttons; the stasis chamber rumbled and hissed sharply as the pneumatics engaged. Eyes blurred with dust, he wiped his face with his sleeve and did not admit to himself that he was stalling.

A quiet, staggered gasp broke his self-delusion. Obi-Wan's eyes fluttered open to find Qui-Gon Jinn twitching weakly as he woke from cryo-stasis. He could not stop the whimper that escaped him, but Qui-Gon cracked one eyelid at the sound. A faint tug of his lips, the tiniest smile, flitted across the older man's face. His voice was a breathy whisper. "My Obi-Wan. I knew you would come for me," he said, moving his hand up to stroke Obi-Wan's cheek.

His skin was warm, and it felt like a brand. That same spot, that same crooked finger, different words— _he is the Chosen One_ —but with that brief moment of contact, the space in Obi-Wan Kenobi's mind left void and bereft on Naboo was occupied once more. Peaceful and achingly familiar, that little corner of himself that had belonged to Qui-Gon once again radiated the Jedi Master's essence—the verdant quiescence of growing things and the song of stars. No other Jedi felt like that in the Force. It could not be faked.

This was not possible, but the Force was telling him the truth.

He had held Qui-Gon as he died. He had felt their training bond snap.

But Qui-Gon Jinn lay before him, now watching him with an increasingly aware gaze. "Obi-Wan?" he said plaintively. "You know it's me?"

"Yes," he whispered, the Force chiming with agreement. "Just rest for a moment," Obi-Wan told him, the roughness of his voice only partially related to the dust.

Qui-Gon raised a trembling hand to scrub his face. The backs of his hands were covered in dark, dried blood which cracked and flaked off as the skin stretched over muscles and bone. Maroon swirls and droplets marred the inside surface of the cryo chamber. "How long has it been?" he croaked.

"What happened here?" Obi-Wan gently seized Qui-Gon's hand and brushed the knuckles with his thumb.

Qui-Gon blinked. "I-I died," he replied, frowning. "I needed to know if I was still alive."

Heart hammering against his ribs, Obi-Wan tried not to panic. "You remember dying?" he managed to get out.

Qui-Gon managed a minute nod. "The Zabrak on Naboo."

Obi-Wan could not stop the choking noise welling in his throat. "How could you remember that?"

"How long, Obi-Wan?"

"You died five years ago." Qui-Gon's face paled, and he turned his hand over to grip Obi-Wan's. A single sob breached Obi-Wan's defences before he took hold of himself. "How is this possible?"

Qui-Gon's grip tightened, and his brows drew down in anger. "The Sith."

 

*

 

"You remember I went on that retreat, just before the mission to Naboo? I never returned. I went to bed and woke up here, with the Sith haunting the edges of the room. I never saw him directly," Qui-Gon told him, his voice low. Sitting up in the stasis chamber had been a struggle; his muscles had begun to atrophy during his long, unattended sleep. Obi-Wan wandered the room lit with dim, flickering fixtures. Examining the equipment and computer consoles was a good reason to not sit next to the Jedi Master, to press against him and feel his heart beat and chest move with every breath. Dressed in loose medical-issue shirt and pants and hair unbound around his shoulders, Qui-Gon looked more vulnerable than Obi-Wan had ever seen him. "But he was certainly interested in the more esoteric aspects of cloning."

Obi-Wan frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Creating clones was just science. The clone he made from me was a perfect replica. They even modified it surgically to match my nose," replied Qui-Gon, rubbing the flat, crooked spot that had broken and never been properly repaired. "But what if you could clone your soul? Recreate your essence and place it in a new body? It would feel the same in the Force. No one would know."

The idea was so repellant that Obi-Wan took a step towards him, aghast. "Qui-Gon—"

The Jedi Master refused to look him in the eye. "I'd rather not elaborate on the specifics, but suffice it to say, I … suffered. Sith magic does not come without a cost, and he was happy to let me pay it."

Horrified, Obi-Wan finally turned his glance upon his former Master. "He experimented on you?"

Qui-Gon's face hardened. "Experiment?" He barked a single, mirthless laugh. "No, he knew exactly what he was doing. He carved my soul in half with the dark side, Obi-Wan, and poured that corruption into my genetic duplicate before setting it loose to take my place."

Obi-Wan could not reply. A hundred questions swirled in his mind, demanding answers, but the sheer atrocity Qui-Gon was describing struck him speechless. Beneath all that, the joyous relief at seeing Qui-Gon living warred with the pain of his memory. Finally, Obi-Wan cleared his throat. "Let's get you out of here," he said quietly.

Together, they shuffled slowly to the ladder. Qui-Gon slung his long arm across Obi-Wan's shoulders, letting the younger man bear much of his weight, while Obi-Wan kept a firm grasp of Qui-Gon's hip to keep him from stumbling. The Jedi Master was warm—warm, and _alive_ —against Obi-Wan's body. The sharp, metallic odour of recycled air clung to his hair; every time it brushed against Obi-Wan's cheek, the Knight had to bite back a shudder at the _wrongness_ of it all.

Upon seeing the long climb ahead of them, Qui-Gon remarked mildly, "Oh, good, because this day hasn't been challenging enough."

There he was. The gentle sarcasm before tackling a necessary challenge, the wry twist of his lips and glint of humour in his blue eyes— _that_ was the Qui-Gon Jinn that Obi-Wan had been missing. Qui-Gon squeezed Obi-Wan's shoulder and settled his hands on the rungs in front of him. "Don't let me fall to my death, please. I couldn't bear the indignity." The joke fell flat as Obi-Wan exhaled sharply, unwilling to meet Qui-Gon's gaze. He motioned for the older man to precede him, and they climbed in slow silence.

Twilight was settling over the desolate landscape as they surfaced. Qui-Gon collapsed onto the salt rocks, panting and trembling from the exertion; Obi-Wan had had to prop him up with the Force for the last few minutes of climbing. A cool wind had kicked up from the north while they were below ground, chilling Obi-Wan's skin. In his thin medical clothing, Qui-Gon began to shiver. Shrugging out of his cloak, Obi-Wan knelt and helped Qui-Gon sit up. He settled the thick fabric over the older man, who gave him a grateful smile. "I'll fetch the speederbike," Obi-Wan told him. "Stay here."

Before Obi-Wan could straighten, Qui-Gon's hand darted out and clasped his fingers. "Obi-Wan," he rumbled, his eyes plaintive and concerned, "I—"

"I'll be right back," said Obi-Wan, pulling his hand free and hurrying away.

It was all too much. His wildest, most desperate dream come true? Qui-Gon Jinn, alive and expectantly awaiting rescue? The most logical, most suspicious parts of himself scoffed at the idea, argued that it was _impossible_. The Force, however, was telling him otherwise. The little knot in his mind where his training bond once resided—now returned, healthy and hale and _real_ —made him feel so complete that he would have fallen to his knees with joy had he been alone. He had found Qui-Gon Jinn. The man who had written those letters full of praise and respect and love was alive. He scrubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. First things first.

The feeling of Qui-Gon pressed up behind him as they sped over the desert set his nerves aflame.

 

*

 

The desk manager asked no questions when Obi-Wan threw down local currency for payment. She handed him a keycard and stared at the tall man wrapped in a swath of brown wool and sporting a mane of silvering hair that had tangled beyond casual repair. Qui-Gon offered her a slight bow and followed Obi-Wan on silent, bare feet.

Obi-Wan should have gone back to the ministerial accommodations, explained the situation and sent a comm to the High Council for further instructions. Instead, he opened the hotel room door, sat down on the edge of the bed, and hid his head in his hands. The door clicked shut a moment later, followed by the mattress sinking next to him. Qui-Gon's voice was quiet. "I'm sorry, Obi-Wan."

"What?" He jerked his head up to glance at the other man. Holding tightly to the ends of Obi-Wan's cloak and hunched at the shoulders, Qui-Gon Jinn exuded misery. He looked small for the first time since Obi-Wan met him.

"I'm sorry for what I said to you. What I did to you."

"It wasn't you, though. It was the clone," replied Obi-Wan instantly, but Qui-Gon was shaking his head.

"I remember all of it, Obi-Wan," he said softly, staring straight ahead. "You can't separate a soul. Not entirely. There was … a connection. It was like I was a passenger, watching and listening through eyes and ears that were mine but not mine."

"You can't apologize for what you couldn't control."

Qui-Gon's long, elegant fingers worried the edge of Obi-Wan's cloak. "But I could. I could influence what the clone did or said, if I waited until I was unconscious in my own body. It was a fight, every time, but sometimes I won."

A flash of Anakin, five years ago: _he was fighting with himself. At least, that's what it felt like._ So Anakin, untrained and just a little boy, had noticed where Obi-Wan had not. When he refused to say anything further, Obi-Wan dared to fill the silence. "You didn't say those things." _You couldn't have._

Fingers twisted into the fabric. In the deepening twilight creeping in through the window blinds, Qui-Gon's features were dim. "'I take Anakin as my Padawan learner,'" he whispered.

In the silence between them, Obi-Wan felt his heart break once more. Only one word fell from his lips, agonized and hoarse. " _Why?_ "

"Because I was trying to warn you," replied Qui-Gon, his voice breaking, "that there was something wrong. That it wasn't _me._ "

Obi-Wan's eyes snapped up, searching Qui-Gon's shadowed face and finding only deep remorse. Anger welled up inside him, beating against his ribs as years of unfinished business unfurled. "How could I have known it wasn't you, Qui-Gon? You pushed me aside for a boy we'd known for less than a week. You threw me away in front of the entire High Council—"

"Obi-Wan, I—"

"You shut me out, let me apologize for something that was your doing—"

"I—"

" _And it wasn't the first time_ ," finished Obi-Wan, harsh and raw. "Why would I have assumed this time was any different? How could I possibly know that _this_ time was unusual, that I should have believed it to be odd behaviour from you? Force damn it all, Qui-Gon, 'train the boy,' was that you, too? Cruelty as a clue in your dying breaths?" Obi-Wan flung himself off the edge of the bed, pacing the tiny room like a trapped animal, running a frantic hand through his copper hair. The urge to flee raked through him, to run from this, from his feelings and the shaking taking over his hands—

Qui-Gon stepped in front of him. The cloak gaped open as Qui-Gon shook his head slowly. "No," Qui-Gon whispered. "This was me." He reached up and gently brushed Obi-Wan's cheek with his finger.

The gentle touch of skin on skin cracked something inside him. A harsh sob wracked his body, and Obi-Wan was suddenly engulfed by a warm, solid body and his own cloak. He hung on, twisting his fists into thin fabric, as the grief he had held for years soaked the neck of Qui-Gon's shirt. Qui-Gon held him tightly, stroking Obi-Wan's hair and murmuring a litany of ragged apologies in his ear. Obi-Wan's sorrow bled out of him, finally accepted by the Force, as he listened to Qui-Gon's steady heart beat and felt his breaths. 

Obi-Wan's shuddering exhales finally slowed, but Qui-Gon did not loosen his hold. "I can never make up for what I put you through," he rumbled. "For making you think I didn't want you. I misjudged how badly I hurt you at the beginning. I assumed by now you knew how I felt."

"Tell me," replied Obi-Wan, his words muffled as he spoke against Qui-Gon's collarbone.

"I respect you, Obi-Wan. You are intelligent, and steadfast, and the kind of man all Jedi should aspire to emulate. I was privileged to have you at my side. You'll become an amazing Knight—or should I say, you have become a Knight who surpasses all of my hopes," Qui-Gon said softly. Obi-Wan could feel him smile against the top of his head. "The beard is a nice touch."

Obi-Wan scoffed. "Tell me what you really think," he insisted.

"What do you—"

"Dooku gave me your letters, Qui-Gon," replied Obi-Wan, rushing the words before he thought better of it and held his tongue, and around him, he felt Qui-Gon tense. "I read them, and I read between the lines. Say what you couldn't write. I need to hear it."

Silence descended upon them save for their rough breathing. The tiny knot in his mind that was Qui-Gon hinted nothing, quivering and tense. Obi-Wan uncurled his fingers from Qui-Gon's shirt and tried to push away, but Qui-Gon held him fast. He pressed his forehead against the Knight's and closed his eyes. "I loved you too much to let you go," he whispered. "I still do."

Obi-Wan's heart should have been soaring, overjoyed to hear the words he had longed for, but he felt numb. There was nothing left of him. No sorrow, no joy—just bone-deep exhaustion. Qui-Gon opened his eyes, studying the younger man's face. His large hand came up and cupped Obi-Wan's cheek. "My poor Obi-Wan."

He let Qui-Gon settle him back on the bed and watched with heavy eyelids as the older man knelt in front of him. Qui-Gon tugged off Obi-Wan's boots and unclasped his utility belt. "Lie down," he said, helping the unprotesting Knight swing his legs under the sheets. "I'll go fetch us something to eat."

"No!" Obi-Wan snatched Qui-Gon's hand and held fast. "Don't leave me. Not again."

Qui-Gon squeezed his hand and rumbled, "Never again. I promise."

Obi-Wan tugged on Qui-Gon's fingers as he slid to the other side of the bed, leaving a space for Qui-Gon. The taller man slid under the covers, keeping his distance for a heartbeat before stretching his arm out across Obi-Wan's pillow, inviting. Obi-Wan stared at Qui-Gon, barely visible in the bluish-grey light. "Things can't go back to the way they were," he said, barely a whisper. "Too much has happened."

"No," agreed Qui-Gon, "they can't."

"You can't just waltz back into the Jedi Order."

"No, I can't."

"We need to have a long discussion, you and I."

Qui-Gon's eyes were bright, and he nodded slowly. "I know, my Obi-Wan."

"I don't care about that right now."

They lay facing each other, unmoving, with Qui-Gon's silent invitation still awaiting a response. As night fell over this unimportant desert city, Obi-Wan made a decision he never thought he would have the opportunity to make. Slowly, he shifted forward until his head nestled against Qui-Gon's shoulder and wrapped his arm around Qui-Gon's chest. Warm fingers traced a Jedi mandala for peace on his back; curled in Qui-Gon's embrace, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and counted heartbeats as he drifted to sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sanerontheinside, beta extraordinaire, and the multiple sad-faces she put on my google doc. *blows kisses*  
> You can all follow me over on the tumbles; my handle is meggory84.


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